My phone fell from my bag today. Face down. Onto a bus floor.
It is not broken – well, not really. It is badly scratched however. All over the face.
OK, it had a few scratches before, but now they are REALLY noticeable.
Those of you who see me regularly will know that I am deeply attached to my pink phone; it is one of those items that is “right”. My closest associates suggest that some day I may need to be surgically removed from it – or it from me.
And there is the rub. It is gettting old and tired. It’s not that I want a fancy phone that does all sorts of magic internetty things. My phone currently lets me make calls, text (a lot) and set reminders and alarms. In fact, I think it does more, but I have never really bothered exploring. I don’t need or want a phone that does more than that. But my pink phone is getting to the point when it is not even doing that very well; the keys are so worn that spelling things correctly is more luck than judgement, its battery runs down scarily fast, and it keeps telling me its memory is full, when it isn’t.
I have been putting off even thinking about replacing it. I enjoy it so much – its colour, its feel and weight, (and the fact that having had it several years, it contains texts from beloved people that I do not want to lose, especially since I have lost some of the people). But the scratches may prove too much. I am trying to judge if I can still read it properly – and deeply hoping that I can.
I found myself thinking about it a lot today. Nothing very original, but a wondering of why I want to keep words I won’t forget anyway, why the weight, colour and feel of the instrument pleases me so much – and above all, why it is so hard to put aside something that is past its time, and trust that there is something else waiting for me – which I realise might begin to be a profound thought about facing the future with trust and not fear.